


Four Left Feet

by Cluegirl



Series: Scatterlings and Orphans [4]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it cannot be said that Tony does anything by halves; whether it's privatizing world peace, pissing off Pepper, or making friends with (and positively <i>not</i> crushing on,) Steve goddamned Rogers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Left Feet

"Hockey?" Steve asked, drying his hair briskly as Barton examined the tickets. He was pink and steaming from the showers, as they all were in the wake of the workout Coulson had just put them through, but somehow Steve managed to be more put-together than any of the uniformed agents they'd just finished schooling.

Barton, turned out in SHIELD issue sweats as a weird sort of solidarity, gave Tony an appreciative grin as he answered, "Yeah, it's kind of like a bar brawl, only on skates, and with big sticks."

"Don't listen to him," Tony answered, pouring himself some of SHIELD's coffee. The stuff was so strong it ought to have been a restricted substance, but somehow never tasted like it had been burnt. Tony considered it the best part of Avengers meetings, even the ones where he got to blow stuff up. "Hockey is a legitimate sport, Steve. Very popular these days. Big following. Cheerleaders and everything." 

Cap was looking less and less convinced as Tony went on. "I believe you," he said, glancing at Clint, "we did have hockey back when I was a kid. It's just... it's May."

Tony leaned over Clint's shoulder and tapped the tickets with his forefinger, crowing inside when he saw Clint's grip on them clamp down. "Arena sports scoff at petty nature, Cap. Come on, I've got us great seats, and we can get lunch at the concessions stand if we head out now. Cheap dogs, nachos and shitty beer -- you'll love it. Oh! We should bring Thor too!"

Clint snorted into his coffee. "And looooots of bail money," he said, but he smirked as he got up from the table and put the tickets into his ball cap for safe keeping, so Tony was counting that as a win. "You know it's a breach of contract for me to be arrested while off the job, right?"

"It's a hockey game," Tony grinned back, "I'm pretty sure lethal force is sanctioned."

"I'm going to need to bring the shield, aren't I?" Steve asked, but he was laughing too.

That was when Thor strode in, half-dressed and as excited as a kid on Christmas. "Are we going into battle?"

"No," said Steve.

"Probably," said Clint.

"Sort of," Tony said over them both. "Grab a shirt, leave the hammer and come on; I'll explain in the car." Then he shot a glance at the shadow lurking by the door. "You coming, Deadly?"

"Sure," Natasha replied, shrugging away from the wall to follow Clint and Thor out of the room, "What could possibly go wrong?" Steve actually flinched at that, cast her a worried look, and oh dear God, could he be for real, knocked twice on the doorframe before he followed her out. Tony brought up the rear, promising himself that he absolutely _would_ find a way to spill salt in front of Steve soon, just to watch what he did with it.

~*~

In Tony's defense, it was entirely the Center Forward's fault that they were on the news that night.

Honestly, what kind of Enforcer lets the other team get a chop shot launched up high enough to clear the Plexiglas and go sailing off into the reserved seats, anyhow? And of _course_ Steve caught the goddamned puck, because hello, Captain Fucking America, and he'd have eaten the thing if he hadn't got his hand in the way! How the hell was he supposed to know the arena cameras were going to be glued on his face when he did catch it? Or that they were going to stay on that section to catch Natasha, Tony, and Clint all struggling together to keep Thor from going back over the glass to demand holmgang from the whole damned team. 

Fury didn't seem entirely convinced by these arguments, but when Tony agreed to withdraw his offer to buy the team just so he could personally fire the players, the Director conceded that they might not all be completely grounded for life after all. But he also made it plain that the next time Tony got the bright idea to set up a team-building outing, he was damn well going file an itinerary, and bring Agent Coulson along for damage control.

Tony asked if that included Clint and Steve's baseball outings, and learned to his satisfaction that it did now, especially if Tony was going to be anywhere near the field. So that was fair; Tony had a new in-flight bogey-tracking algorithm he wanted to refine, and baseballs generally didn't require repulsor blasts to keep in line. Clint wanted to see if putting Steve in the pop fly foul zone could result in them going home with a game ball to match Steve's signed hockey puck. Thor wanted to know more of these Midgardian forms of ritualized combat, Natasha just had a hard on for chaos, and... well, Coulson hated baseball. So really, no disadvantage to the plan at all, was there?

Even so, Tony decided that phase two of his project probably ought to have a few more variable limitations if he didn't want to be tazed more than strictly necessary.

~*~

"So this is in beta," Tony said, handing them each a pair of goggles, then attaching the cable from his own datasuit to the earpiece of the pair he was already wearing. Bruce followed his lead immediately, Natasha a moment after. "Gotta plug it in there, Cap," Tony said to Steve, who was staring around the very empty projection space as thought he expected ninjas to drop from the corners. "Show won't start till we're all logged in."

Steve gave Tony a look that all but said out loud, 'I am choosing to trust you here, even though I think I might regret it,' which was possibly legit, given that at Tony's behest he'd already put on a spandex onesie with big green spots on all the articulation points and nothing at all left to the imagination regarding what he was packing under it, and then he'd let Tony lead him into a big closed box and tell him to put a blindfold on. And oh hello, inappropriate time to be thinking kinky things there, Stark, given that you're in spandex too. But before Tony could take the goggles from him, Steve found the cable, plugged the viewer in, and slid them on himself. 

Tony felt more than vindicated at the way his expression slid from guarded curiosity to open awe when the display came up around him. Score one for the Iron Man, ladies and gentlemen.

"So yeah, this is all very hush hush at the moment," he told the three of them, pinching master triggers in his gloves to project the system controls in the air before him. "Pepper hasn't got all the signatures yet, but, well, if research waited on permissions, we'd still be using stone axes." He brought the lights up, queued the aural response units, and synched the air cyclers with the individual site maps for the four of them. 

"Tony..." Steve said, turning to stare around him with such naked wonder on his face that Tony could hardly resist the urge to whoop and punch the air. 

_Why yes, Rogers, I AM a super genius, now that you mention it!_ He kept that thought silent and off his face though, because his cool had not utterly deserted him just yet, thank you. "Yeah, you're right," he said distractedly, "We'd probably still be living in caves. Anyway, I need you guys to test the interface for me. Walk around, see how the rendering flows, and-"

"Tony, this is the _Louvre._ " 

Bruce, who'd begun to chuckle, followed Steve's gawking stare upward. "You've built a pirated, virtual Louvre," he said.

Tony grimaced. "Ugh! I hate that word. RIAA hasn't pissed a circle around everything in the world just yet, you know." He called up the temperature controls and gave them a two degree nudge upward in deference to the spandex, then turned to his own defense. "Look, think of it as a private, slightly open-source Louvre tour, please. Stark Industries will test fly it in a few children's hospitals and inner-city schools, and all the legalese will work out in the end. But only if you three can help me shake down the code first."

Natasha gave him the same kind of unblinking stare she gave bad guys before shooting them, then tilted her head to the side. "Shakedown, huh? How complete is it, this interface?"

Truth, in this case, made for a better story than anything Tony could invent, so he went with it. "Well, I'm pretty sure it'll choke if you try to split up in three different directions, but other than that it should keep up with you. That's what we're testing though."

She held that look a little longer, while behind her, Steve wandered toward the nearest painting as though hypnotized. Then she reached out and tipped one of the gleaming brass stanchions with a finger. "Hm. No resistance to touch," she said, unhooking the velvet ropes with carefully exaggerated movements, "This is not unlike mime."

"There'd have to be a lot more wetware to allow for touch-sensation," Bruce said. Natasha's eyebrow did that thing that made Tony pretty sure he didn't want to know what she was thought that meant, but luckily Bruce was on the ball. "Neural interface," he explained, deliberately putting his leg through a beautifully rendered granite bench, "The suits provide a vague illusion of contact, but without direct access to the nervous system, no projection is ever going to make a really accurate touch-simulation."

"Until the porno industry gets into the market," Tony predicted, just to see Bruce try and hide his amusement. "So what do you say, Cap," he called over to Steve, who looked like he might be about to compromise the room rendering as he followed the gilded frames toward a gallery that, strictly speaking, was inside a wall just then.

He turned around, face alight, grin pure joy. "I wouldn't know," he said, "Paris was still occupied by Germany when I went down, and I never got to see it. Rumor was they were emptying the museums and shipping it all back to Berlin though. I... "He turned again, and laughed. "Holy cow, is this all really here? I mean there? Did they really save this much of it?"

"It's based on the museum's current catalogue and displays," Tony replied, full measure of smug with a dollop of proud on top. He decided not to mention that several hundred tourists had unwittingly carried tiny digital scanning cameras through the whole place earlier that month when Stark International set up a kiosk and gave out free buttons and ball caps for a week. What Interpol didn't know couldn't possibly hurt them, after all.

Bruce gave him a knowing look, but only said, "This is really impressive, Tony. How many rooms are in the program?"

"Oh, you know," he said, waving his hand to make the control panel evaporate, "All of them. The storage vaults were tough, and I kinda got bored with rendering the management offices, but... HEY, NO!"

He spun, lunging as Natasha hefted the freed brass stanchion off the floor and put it through a case of 19th century jewelry. Glass and howling sirens exploded everywhere, and before Tony got three steps toward her, Natasha had snapped a pair of diamond and ruby bracelets onto her wrists and gone back for the matching tiara. 

Steve hunkered down for combat as the CGI guards burst in, shouting in French. They were barely more than wire frames as of yet, because Tony'd goddamned well _thought_ he was inviting the Black Widow for a beta test, not the fucking Pink Panther, but just like the real museum guards, they were plentiful, burly, and utterly without humor. 

Bruce backed hastily toward the virtual exit, fumbling with his goggles. Tony scrambled to call up his controls again. But all the redheaded menace herself did was flash Tony a grin as she dropped into a fighting crouch, plopped the tiara onto her head, and said, "Yeah. This'll be fun."

~*~

In retrospect, Tony had to admit that the dance lessons were the point at which he actually lost control of the situation. Everything up to then had been more or less exactly to Tony's plan -- or rather, within acceptable fumble to fuckup to fireball parameters, anyhow. When Tony started 'accidentally' turning up in the vicinity of Steve's weekly dance lessons, however, he really ought to have known that disaster had him in her sights.

The disaster in question being, of course, Natasha Romanov, who was not only somewhat territorial about her mambo time with Steve, but who clearly had a severe humor handicap when it came to the art of ballet. Severe as in 'that's one hell of a condition there, ma'am,' levels of severe. Crippling amusement deficit. Sad, really.

Tony didn't even know how she'd _heard_ him. He'd been talking to Clint in the waiting lobby, watching the pair of them put their boogie-shoes on inside, but not thirty seconds after the Nutcracker reference had passed Tony's lips, there Natasha was in the doorway with that mocking half-smile of hers, and 'a little thing I need your help with, purely for demonstration purposes, because you've had a few lessons in your day, right Stark?'

He'd had. You don't get out of prep school without dance lessons, no matter how dysfunctional a nerd you are. Much as he'd hated them at the time, those dusty old ballroom shuffles had served him well enough at the public functions of his life thus far. He could steer a girl around the floor at most civilized parties without fear for her toes or his. How bad, he'd figured, could it be?

He hadn't counted on Romanov being a bloody minded harpy who was more than ready to make him eat every mocking word he'd ever had to say about grown men in tights who danced on their tippytoes. He'd offered her the most heartfelt apology of his life about half an hour in, but Natasha merely told him that eleven year old girls in Minsk did this all the time and no, the Geneva Convention didn't find the techniques troublesome in the least, so he could quit whining and fix his form before she fixed it for him. And by the way, if he threw up on the floor, she was going to make him clean it up before continuing the workout.

Worse yet, she made him do it all in front of Steve, not to mention Clint, who simply HAD to have been out there in the lobby watching the whole thing and laughing like a rat-bastard. Steve had clearly expected something more Viennese and less violent from his Tuesday afternoon with Natasha, but from some twisted sense of team loyalty or sympathy was just crazy enough to man up to the same two hours of sheer, graphic torture she inflicted on Tony. Worse, he kept that earnest, honest, trying-my-best face in place the entire goddamned time. Tony could have kicked him in the knee, if he wasn't trying so hard not to pass out or vomit.

It was only afterward, when Steve was helping him get to the showers, the both of them sweaty, shaking, and quite possibly in shock, that Steve let the façade slip and admitted to Tony that Natasha hadn't ever asked him do a ballet workout before. 

"We usually just do ballroom," he said, leaning Tony against the wall for a moment so he could present his eye to the scanner outside the men's shower room. "This was quite a change. You can really see how she uses some of that in combat though, can't you?"

"Which part," Tony wheezed, careful not to set off the coughing again. He'd spent so long panting for breath that his lungs felt like they'd been taken out of his body and beaten against a wall. "The 'standing for an hour with my foot held up over my shoulder' part, or the 'human knees don't actually bend that way part?'"

The grin Steve flashed him then was full of sympathy. Sympathy and amusement, goddammit. "I was thinking of the lifts, actually," he said, pulling Tony's arm over his shoulder again as the door slid open. "Kinda made me think of that first fight in Manhattan. With the Chitauri."

"Oh yeah," Tony groaned, "how could I forget the 'deadlift a dangerous, vindictive woman and hold her aloft for hours at a time' part?" 

Steve laughed then, and dumped Tony on one of the benches by the lockers. "She's only dangerous to enemies," he protested, turning to open one of them. Inside, Tony could see what pretty much constituted Steve Rogers' civilian uniform; white undershirt, sedate button down in some shade of blue, chinos, belt, boots. All over New York, talented tailors were weeping into their espresso drinks and not one of them knew why.

"Well, I think today pretty much proved that she IS vindictive," Tony grumbled, dumping his shoes and wincing at the amount of pain involved in getting his damned t shirt off over his head. "And sadistic, and oh yeah, probably not actually human as well. Ugh. I've had crash landings that hurt less than your dance lesson!"

"Um, about that," Steve said, and when Tony turned to see what he meant, he found the Super Soldier shirtless, pink, and rubbing at his neck. "I really think it'd be better if you didn't do that anymore," he explained. 

Well fuck if that wasn't humiliating. Here Tony was, giving this friends thing his best shot, and Steve was warning him off before he'd even got a fair chance at the dancing? And dirty ball on the timing of it as well, because how the hell was Tony supposed to mount his dignity and storm off into the sunset when he wasn't even sure he could stand yet? Bluster it was, then. "Hey, pal, I was just out there in the waiting room talking to Clint and minding my own business. It was the Bloody Countess there who decided she needed to drag me into your little consensual torture session there!"

"Oh, shush. I didn't mean the dance sessions," Steve answered, shoving his sweats and shorts down over his hips as if he'd never dreaded a gym class in his entire life, -- and fuck, why would he, with all of that going on? -- and showing no consideration whatsoever for how much harder it was going to be for Tony to get his own pants off with the fly under extra tension. "Far's I'm concerned you're welcome to turn up anytime you want, so long as you promise not to make wisecracks about that Baryshnikov fellow again. At least not where Natasha can hear you do it. I'm not an eleven year old girl from Minsk; my 90 year old heart can't handle that kind of strain."

Then he snagged a towel and headed off into the showers, golden, gorgeous, slightly unsteady, and utterly unconscious of it. Tony's body was anything BUT unconscious of it, and yeah, this was exactly why he'd always hated gym class, damn it; inconvenient, awkward, and always, _always_ with the crappy soap. 

_We are not crushing on Rogers,_ he told his lap silently, not trusting the water to hide actual words from Steve's enhanced hearing, _We are making friends with Rogers, and that is totally different. Now behave, or we're listening to nothing but show tunes until we get Plan 2 implemented! On endless repeat. Loud. We're talking the Madonna version of Evita here, so help me!_

There. Now Tony just needed to think of a threat he could use to make his knees do their job and get him into the showers, and he'd be all set.

~*~

The call came in from Coulson a week later, 'requesting' permission for the Avengers to use the ballroom at the old Stark mansion every Friday for the next month.

"What for?" he'd asked around a penlight, "Doesn't the SHIELD facility have-"

"This is an Avengers agenda, Stark," Coulson cut him off, crisp and correct, and probably scowling in that way Tony just knew meant he was loved, "We need to meet in a ballroom, not a flight-deck. Nineteen hundred hours."

"You still haven't told me what this is all about," he insisted, then caught Dummy's claw again and pushed it back into place so he could see what he was soldering. 

"Ask your CEO," was all the agent had to say.

So Tony did. Pepper was apparently expecting his call. "We are NOT canceling the Stark charity gala, the hospital needs that money, and God knows Stark Industries needs the good PR, so don’t you even ask!"

"I'm just fine, Darling," he answered, "how's your day going?"

There was a pause. Tony imagined her counting, or cursing with the mute on, or possibly just staring at her phone in that 'what goes ON in your head,' way she had of doing. Eventually though, she answered him. "I need the Avengers at the Gala. All of them." She did not also add _'And it's your fault_ ', but Tony could hear the space where the phrase was standing all the same.

"And this is a problem?" he asked, turning the soldering tip off and setting it to the wet sponge with a sizzle. "Why would this be a problem? They clean up okay, and we can afford to comp a handful of tickets, surely. I don't see why this is-"

"THIS IS A PROBLEM!" He waited; pretty sure she wasn't counting this time. Eventually, she unmuted the phone and tried again. "This is a problem because you, Tony Stark, have this stupid habit of flying around the world and PISSING OFF PSYCHOS WHO ALSO HAPPEN TO HAVE SUPERPOWERS!" 

Oh. Tony let go of Dummy's claw, aware, suddenly, that he was on dangerous ground. Like, _here be dragons, don't poke that geyser you idiot, and by the way, one does not simply walk into Mordor_ , ground. They could be atomic seconds away from talking about bullet holes again.

"Not all of them have superpowers," he said, "a lot of them just have chemistry sets and really bad impulse control."

"Unless you count the ones that have STANDING ARMIES! AND KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!!"

Oh yeah, the countdown to bullet holes was definitely running now.

"So we'll invite the Avengers to the Gala. I'm sure Fury can assign dates for the guys, so we'll have backup hotties there as well," she made an incredulous noise, but he rushed onward, "and in the meantime, we'll put everything we have into tracking down whichever bad guy's got his panties in a knot. Betcha dinner we find him and bust his lair before the Gala's even a week away."

He heard her take a breath, thin and whistling through her nose. Then she held it, and blew it out slowly. "So help me, Tony Stark, you are going to attend every single one of the meetings Phil calls on this. Even the ones on strategy and etiquette, because if he even hints to me that you've ditched out, then so help me, I WILL superglue both hands to your behind the next time I find you passed out at your workbench!"

"Um!" he said, not entirely okay with how strangely turned on he suddenly found himself.

"I'll do it! Jarvis will help too, because he likes me." She cut the call.

"It's true, sir," Jarvis said into the following silence, "My program variables do tend to favor Ms. Potts under most circumstances."

"Yeah," he answered. "Mine too."

~*~

Tony hadn't set foot in the Stark mansion since his mother had died, and Howard had moved them both to California so he could be closer to the SI labs. Then there'd been boarding schools and colleges for Tony, while Howard had split his time between the Malibu condo and sleeping on the sofa in his workshop. Then when he and his car failed their save vs physics on that October night, the mansion had gone in trust to Tony, along with the rest of Howard and Maria's homes. Obie had been the executor of the trust, of course, and Tony just hadn't asked after the mansion once he'd come of age.

He'd wanted the new back then, not an Edwardian sprawl of walnut paneling and marble statuary in the garden. Tony would find his own houses, thank you, and fill them with things that had never been thought of before rather than lurk in the ghostly footsteps of silent family dinners and chic cocktail parties he'd never been allowed to stay up for.

So the mansion had stayed in limbo for close to a decade: mothballed and dry-docked, with the trust funneling in just enough money to keep it in stable repair while Tony built his life and pretended it didn't exist. For some reason though, he hadn't ever sold the place. The surprising thing was that Obie hadn't either. Tony hadn't found out about the legal loophole that had let Obidiah Stane quietly sell off nearly all of Howard and Maria Stark's other real estate properties over the years and pocket the proceeds for himself, until the man's death. At that point, adding 'embezzler from his dead partner's estate' to the list of Obie's sins had seemed fairly petty.

The point being, though, that when Coulson had asked to use the Mansion for the Avengers dance lessons, Tony had actually had it to offer. Obie hadn't stolen it, or moved into it, or knocked it down to build on its grounds, and Tony wondered why right up until his car pulled up onto the curving gravel drive, and he spotted Ms. April Sloane waiting for him like a tiny silver ramrod on the front porch.

 _Shit, she's still alive?_ Tony thought, fumbling with his seatbelt, and trying not to think of every immoral, untidy, or illegal thing he'd done since the last time he'd had to face her. Her hair was entirely silver now, but that was about the only sign of the decades past since Tony'd last seen her; she was still skinny, short, and way too big to fit into her fierce little bones. Oh, this was not going to go well at all...

"Mrs. Sloane!" he summoned up his most charming smile for her -- the one he saved for police officers and female reporters with whom he might have unwisely slept in the past. "It's good to see you looking so well! How's the portrait holding up?"

"Young Sir," she clipped, and gave him to understand that found his sense of humour as uninspiring as ever. "Lunch will be in half an hour."

"Um," Tony cut a glance at Happy, who wasn't looking any more comfortable under the old housekeeper's gimlet eye, "Thanks? But we really just came to have a look around the-"

"Yes, Ms. Potts did notify me," she said, in a tone that suggested she might have _opinions_ about the woman in question, "You'll find the estate catalogue and house accounts waiting for you in the main library. Young man!" 

"Ma'am?" Happy snapped to attention at her notice. Poor guy couldn't help it -- most people reacted that way when April Sloane focused her attention on them, Tony remembered, which had been why the butler had always been the one upstairs during Maria's parties, while she stayed in the kitchen and made miracles happen. There was no mortal Jarvis around to soften April's tyranny now though, and it looked like Happy was going to be first to feel the boot.

"You'll find the carport at the end of this drive, beside the tennis court. The kitchen's entrance is directly opposite, beside the pear tree. Bring Mr. Stark's case when you come in." Then she turned on her heel and marched into the shadows as if there were dragons, or perhaps dust bunnies within, and nobody to take them on but her.

Happy whistled in awe. 

"Don't I know it," Tony agreed with a shiver. "Better just do what she says. She's got some kind of mind-control thing or other going on, I swear. When I was ten, she made a three-star General wait on the porch until he'd cleaned his boots before she'd let him into the house for dinner." He shut the car door and settled his jacket with a tug. "If I don't turn up for lunch, call the Avengers to come and get me, okay? I mean it," he said, stone cold serious as Happy chuckled, "don't be a hero; she'll have you polishing the silver until you forget your name. It's happened before!"

Happy's grin faded a little, but it didn't entirely die, which probably meant he was weighing all the times when Tony'd bullshitted him blind against the possibility that just this once, he might actually be in mortal danger. A fair cop, Tony had to admit as he headed for the mansion's open maw, but he hoped Happy wouldn't have to learn about Sloane the hard way.

He found the housekeeper waiting for him at the library doors, her timeless face set like a faintly disapproving stone mask, her grey eyes staring right through his Armani armor to the feckless rogue lurking beneath. He boosted his chin to her regard and she smiled with only a fraction of her lips, as though that had proved her right all along.

"This way, young sir," she said.

"It's sir," he corrected. "Just sir. There is no old sir anymore, just me. I'm the sir now. And I know where the damned library is in my own house."

"It's been quite a long time since you've lived here, young sir," she said, opening the door for him anyhow. "There'll be a lot you've forgotten, though no doubt it will come back to you quickly enough."

"How about Mr. Stark? Could you call me Mr. Stark?"

She flicked him a glance that seemed to say _If you can earn the privilege,_ and led the way to the massive reading table and the hardbound volumes clustered there. "Here is the estate catalogue," she said, clicking on the lamp despite the sunlight that was pouring in through tall, narrow windows, "with amending volumes one and two dictating upkeep and repairs to the collection. You'll find the house account books with it, arranged by year."

"Tony. You can call me Tony," he tried, sitting in the chair she pulled out for him. "Will you do that for me, Sloane? Please?"

"Of course I won't," she replied and set a ballpoint pen down on the legal pad at his elbow. "If there's nothing else, I'll go and see about lunch."

"It is my name, you know," he called after her. "They're both my names -- Tony, and Mr. Stark, -- and they're perfectly good names." She neither turned, nor slowed, not even when he added, "You're fired?"

Well, he hadn't really expected that to work. Even Obie would have thought to try it. "Jarvis, make a note -- we might need an exorcist before we can use the mansion."

"Very good, Sir," Jarvis answered from the phone in his breast pocket, "Shall we enquire after the full Catholic rite, or will New Age Pagan do?"

~*~

"So why are you still here?" he asked Sloane when she came to get him for lunch.

The question did not seem to trouble her at all. "Because that man of yours can't be trusted to serve the soup without spilling it all over you. Why are _you_ still here?"

Tony noted the absence of any formal address with a small and private satisfaction. "Because despite all odds, it looks like I still own this house," he replied, sitting at the only set place at the whole long table. "Happy is allowed to eat with me, you know, he can't survive on spite and sarcasm alone."

"Not like some," she agreed as she brought the tureen and began to ladle soup into his bowl. "But you needn't worry, he finished his lunch while you were lingering over the books. I believe he's currently washing the soup stains out of his shirt; however, if you want him I can ring...?"

"S'all right," he said, and waited to speak again until the danger of getting cold green slurry poured into his lap had passed. "But really Sloane, I want to know: why are you still here?" She glanced up from the sandwich tray with a look that had inspired stuttering and occasional incontinence in lesser men, but Tony held fast to his spoon and pressed on. "I looked it up. Howard left you enough that you could have retired to Bermuda when you were forty, and still have a cook, a butler, and six paid cabana boys on staff today."

She made a noise that could have been either disgust or amusement as she set the platter of sandwiches where Tony could reach them, but since she didn't dump them in his lap, Tony decided to take it as a good sign. "But you didn't leave. You just stayed here taking care of this big empty pile all these years. You didn't even quit when Howard died, even though you must have known I wasn't going to come back here anytime soon."

She tsked in disgust. "Mr. Stane-"

"Mr. Stane couldn't touch this place. I looked that up too," he countered, choosing his sandwiches carefully. Ham and swiss could hide more poisons under a strong mustard, but lobster salad could be just as deadly... "Unless you and I both signed off on the sale, this mansion-"

"Would stay in the Stark line indefinitely," she finished for him, something that was not quite disdain flickering through her expression. "And to spare you the effort of further comedic timing, yes, I am a shareholder in Stark Enterprises, and yes, I am the executor of Maria Stark's estate as well."

"And yet you're here," he said, "serving lunch to a brat you never pretended to like. All you had to do for me today was let me look at the ballroom. I'd have gone away again afterward and forgot the whole thing." The strange green soup turned out to be pear, mint, and cucumber, and Tony didn't bother to hide his surprise at liking it.

The corner of her mouth quirked up, sphinx-like. For a terrifying moment, Tony wondered if somehow Natasha hadn't gone back in time and assumed the woman's identity; a deep cover to end them all. "Yes, you would have," Sloane agreed, as if that answered everything. Then she walked out of the room and left him alone with his lunch.

Well, if it was poisoned, it was delicious poison. Tony settled on one of each of the sandwiches, just to be certain of things. She didn't return when he'd finished, so Tony just left the dishes where they were and returned to the library. There, he found that three new ledgers had been added to the pile, along with an ancient shoebox tied shut with a black ribbon.

The ledgers were account books for the same years as the ones he'd already examined. The difference was, these ledgers were accurate, not just dummied up accounts to make Obie think the mansion was running on a shoestring. They also referenced income from patent royalties and bank accounts that hadn't shown up anywhere in Tony's copy of his parent's estates. Apparently April Sloane was not only an immortal, mind-controlling alpha-ninja of a housekeeper; she was a deft hand at financial espionage as well. And a really good cook.

He slipped the ribbon off the shoebox, and checked inside just long enough to note that yes, it was full of photographs. A sheet of stationery lay on top, folded double over a neatly penned list. Memory had Tony wincing before he'd even touched the thing. Sloane's lists had been the bane of his childhood, and had convinced him early on that the woman couldn't possibly have been human. No matter how sneaky Tony could be, she always knew what he'd done, and she had absolutely no compunction against committing the data to paper in order to bust his chops with it. Even when it had totally been Dummy's fault.

He unfolded the list though, because it was either that, or he was going to have to look at the photos, and Tony was damn sure not ready for THAT bit of trauma just yet, thanks.

_1) The Ballroom's sound system interface has been upgraded to accept MP3 players. Your instructors will not need to bring their own sound equipment; however, if you intend to hire a band or DJ, I will expect contact information beforehand. Likewise, I will require a list of your intended guests for these dance lessons, along with any relevant information on your guests' diet limitations and food allergies._

_2) For security reasons, I will not admit any individual who is not on the aforementioned lists to the house or grounds. Yes, that includes your robot army, and secret agent playmates, Mr. Stark. Either tell me they will be coming, or do not expect to enjoy their company._

Tony thought of General Clark and his boot brush, and gave a shiver. Sloane versus Fury; he didn't know who would win, but New York City would certainly lose.

_3) I knew Edwin Jarvis for decades before his death. He was from Cornwall, not Wiltshire. You've got the voice all wrong._

_4) Make what copies you choose of the photographs and bring the box back when you return on Friday week. I expect you'll have very few private family photos of your own at this point, given that the bulk of them belonged to Maria, and have been stored here over the years. Howard, as I recall, was never one for mementos. The photographs are not in any particular order; however, I will notice it should any go missing._

'Will' had been underlined twice. Tony imagined those underscores dripping with icicles.

_5) You may expect, henceforth, to find a room ready for you here at any time you should require. You needn't call ahead unless you intend to bring guests, at which point, kindly refer to points one and two above._

_6) You ask why I am still here? I ask in return, why should I be anywhere else? People with more money and time than you have spent their lives and fortunes searching the world to find the one place where they belong, Mr. Stark, but I have found mine. It would be foolish to leave it whilst it still stands whole. I trust, when you have found yours, you will better understand._

_P.S. Episcopalian, thank you. However, do not expect much success with that line of inquiry, as the ghost in the East Wing has defied all previous attempts to roust it, and the Diocese no longer returns calls regarding odd happenings at Stark Mansion._

~*~

The first dance lesson event, as Tony came to think of them, was full of revelations.

Revelation the First was that Phil Coulson wasn't a bad dance instructor at all. He wasn't as decorative as Natasha was, but he also didn't tend to turn psycho over Tony's innocent little comments, either. The Taser threat was entirely specious, Tony was pretty sure, because where would he put one in that outfit? The agent had abandoned his tailored-to-hide-an-arsenal suit in favor of slim-cut trousers that hung low on his hips, and a button-down shirt that ran out of buttons halfway up, and left the job to a white tank top that seemed to be knit in some bizarre, invisible cypher that only Clint could detect. Either that, or Hawkeye had a real thing for Agent Phil's collarbones. That was possible too. Hinky, but possible. 

Revelation the Second was when Tony learned that Jarvis couldn't hack the mansion's computer systems at all. This appeared to be because the mansion did not _have_ a system, nor were any of the computers on the premises actually attached to internet routers, let alone to each other. It was like Sloane had set the place up as a medieval e-fortress, and was even now taunting and launching livestock by catapult at him from over the walls. For all Tony knew, his mother really _did_ smell of elderberries.

Revelation the Third, and quite possibly weirdest, was that once Thor got his brain wrapped around the idea of intersex public dancing being neither conquest, contest, nor congress, he turned out to be rather frighteningly good at Salsa. Like, _really_ good, with the hip thing, and the footwork and knee slides and all. Tony was fairly certain he hated the alien prince just a little bit over that. He silently promised himself the right to buy Thor a blue shirt with great big ruffles all down the sleeves and convince him to wear it to the Gala by way of revenge.

Revelation the Fourth was the least welcome of all; that was when Tony learned that about half of the Avengers and all of the SHIELD agents involved had somehow got it into their heads that Tony had faked the super-villain's threat against the Stark Gala just for an excuse to dance with Steve. And that's why they wouldn't let him partner with anybody else. At all. Not even Pepper could save him, because she'd decided she danced just fine, thanks, and didn't need to have more lessons under Ms. Sloane's steely eye. 

Which he knew was a bullshit excuse because Sloane hadn't stuck her nose out of the kitchen since Tony'd _got_ there, and she wouldn't even have known Pepper was there at all. A stranger in a rented suit met them all at the door, another collected coats, two rode herd on the buffet of snacks and drinks, and two more hung out in the foyer, apparently waiting for something to want dusting. Or possibly deluding themselves that they were there for security reasons, Tony wasn't sure. Of Sloane herself, there was no sign aside from the food -- that, Tony recognized instantly, and with a rather appalling surge of appetite. How had he forgotten about those sausage rolls of hers; savory, greasy, spiced with coriander and terror, and utterly addictive. Pepper was fretting over nothing. While missing some really great food, and the amusement of watching Tony defend his integrity to his team while trying to do everything Steve was doing, only backwards. 

The only thing that would have made it more awkward for Tony would have been high heels.

"I do not protest too much," he informed Steve, _sotto voce_ while they watched Coulson and Hill demonstrate the basic steps for rumba, "I don't protest nearly enough, given the circumstances. If I'd wanted to invite you all to the Gala I'd just have done it, not wasted all this time when I could've been rebuilding that left repulsor."

"I know, Tony," Steve replied, not taking his eyes from the lecture. "but you have to admit it's weird that SHIELD can't find any data on this Sepiidaris guy. He hasn't stolen anything, blown anything up, kidnapped anybody, or even sent a threatening manifesto to the press. And he named himself after a mollusk."

"Well, how is it my fault if he's a sucky villain?" Tony demanded. "They can't all be Loki or Dr. Doom!"

The look Steve turned on him then was weird: amused, exasperated, perhaps a little fond? Or maybe it was gas. He'd hit Sloane's appetizer selection pretty hard during the first break, after all, and that many lobster puffs would take their toll on anybody. "I think for that, we should be glad," he said, and caught Tony's hand to pull him away from the wall. "Here's hoping he's as bad at villainy as he is at picking names."

Tony huffed agreement and let himself be led out into position on the floor. "When do I get to lead?"

"We've been over this before, Stark," Coulson called as he went to start the music, "The tallest man leads. In this case, that is not you."

"Oh, so it's an altitocracy then?" he challenged, grabbing Steve's bicep and positively _not_ shivering when the answering grip curled, solid and hot over his shoulder blade, "And what if Cap was _not_ the tallest? I could wear my flight boots, and we'd be the same height, so what then? Chaos? Revolution?" 

Coulson ignored the challenge and pressed play. The music swelled, Steve vibrated with nerves for all of two beats, then Tony felt him take a breath, and melt into that first step. "No need for uproar," he said with a wry smirk, "I'll save all my dances for pretty girls and short geniuses, I promise." 

"I'm NOT short," Tony griped, letting himself be turned under the arm Steve wasn't holding up particularly high.

"Course you're not," Steve lied, pulling him back into frame, then twisting them both to step through, "Anyhow, you don't want to try and lead with me. That'd be a real mess."

Swing back, step through, swing back again, and back to frame. Tony chuckled. "Oho? Having a little trouble surrendering command there, Captain? Do we have budding tyranny problem here?"

In revenge, Steve twirled him twice under the arm, and then slung him out for that damned twist, wrap, hug thing that felt way too disco to live. He only held it for half a beat, but that was enough for Tony to feel the smug fucker laughing silently against his back. "More like I've got about eighty pounds on you," Steve said as they pulled back into the frame and went back to basics again. "I've only just learned to do this forward. If you try and make me turn it around in my head, you really will need to dance in your flight boots just so I won't break your toes."

As if to prove the point, Steve tried to execute a three part turn but signaled for a step-through instead, and though Tony's feet were spared, it did take them the next few measures to get straightened out. "See?" Steve said, flushed and grinning as he started them off in a basic again, "Just think how much worse that could have been."

"Okay, you know what? I'm gonna call bullshit on that one," Tony replied. "I've seen you take out six moving, airborne targets with one throw of that shield between the ricochets and rebounds. Hell, you decapitated a Doombot last month from around a ninety degree corner using only a shop window reflection and Hawkeye for range and aim, and you even caught the shield on the rebound after it was down." He broke the frame just enough to give Steve an accusing poke in the shoulder. "There is not a damned thing wrong with your relative spatial sense, and you know it."

Steve's eyelashes fluttered down, shuttering a glance that Tony hadn't had time to read. Embarrassed? Distressed? What? Fucking what had he said? That had been a compliment, damn it! "Well," Steve answered after a few steps, his voice dry and sidelong, "They ever take the shield away, guess I can get by hustling pool."

That was supposed to be a joke. Even Tony could see that, but there was something else underneath it, something maybe he didn't think Tony would get, or even notice; some part of the joke that he held with the sharp edge turned inward. The mean joke you make first, because you know someone's going to take the shot and if it's you, then you know how hard it'll hit. First page in Tony's playbook; own your shit.

The music stopped. The dance ended without any particular flourish or closure, they just stopped walking in the same closed square. Steve's hand dropped away from Tony's back, and he lowered their arms, his hand relaxing around Tony's as though already slipping away. "You're not just a lab rat," Tony said, gripping, stopping him. "You know that, right?" It made sense in his head, it totally did. It was only when the words were coming out of his mouth that Tony realized how nonsensical they were. And how revealing. But he didn't let go of Steve's hand, or his stare.

He watched while that face went startled, then wary, then weary and resigned. He watched Steve put on a war-bonds smile and a shrug that was as genuine as a cardboard tree. "Well, I did do some time as a dancing monkey."

Yeah, Tony knew a loaded statement when he heard one, and even though that one didn't make much sense, he figured he had its payload and target more or less figured out. "You're not," he said, and used his grip on Steve's hand to drag him from the ballroom, ignoring the questioning looks the other Avengers sent their way. Coulson could entertain himself with the rest of the team for awhile, this was important, dammit. Steve let himself be led without contest, but Tony could tell from the tension in his thick fingers that the eyebrow of disapproval thing was almost certainly happening again.

The dining room lights were off, but plenty of light poured through from the ballroom's open French doors. Tony chose two chairs that would leave them in view of the others, (no sense courting more shit from Clint's filthy mind, after all,) and shoved them back from the table to face each other. "Okay, look," he said, slinging himself into one, and looking pointedly up to Steve until he took the hint and sat. "Look, I. Sometimes I talk shit." Steve blinked, and one eyebrow went up on his forehead. Tony scowled at it and went on. "Okay, I talk shit most of the time, but just because I said something, that doesn't mean -- dude, are you laughing?"

"Sorry," Steve said, shaking his head. But he totally _was_ laughing, and not even trying to hide it. He grabbed at Tony's sleeve though, before he could shove out of the chair and walk away. "No, Tony, I'm sorry. I am." You just couldn't accuse those goddamned eyes of deceit, even when they were still crinkled at the edges and bright with mirthful tears. Tony huffed a little, but relaxed into the chair again.

"It's just..." Steve chuckled, shaking his head. Then he met Tony's glower and tried again. "Look Tony, I grew up in a Brooklyn orphanage during the great depression. You know what I used to look like," he held up his little finger to demonstrate scale. "You can't think I didn't take my share of ribbing back then." 

"Well," Tony began, not sure what he meant to say, but trusting that his mouth would think of something.

Steve didn't give him the chance though. "My best friend gave me more grief on a good day than you get around to in a week. Bucky could make a Nun mad enough to throw a punch. Actually, he did once. Got us kicked clean out of Sacred Heart when we were sixteen. And don't think he went easy on me because we were friends." Tony thought of Rhodey, and had to nod. "Army barracks weren't charm schools either. So I don't worry, I can handle your smart mouth. I've handled smarter."

"Then why the drawing?" Because really, that was what Tony had wanted to know from the moment he'd seen the stupid thing. What was it about that stupid comment, that one out of all the others, that had deserved the treatment it got. What made that one worth remembering?

Steve just looked at him for a moment, then down at his clasped hands with a sigh. "So you did see that one then." It wasn't a question, so Tony didn't bother answering it. "It was just a scribble. You shouldn't let it bother you."

Oh, but Tony fucking _hated_ being dismissed like that! Like a mouthy kid who couldn't handle the truth and should get out of the way so Dad could work. Like a know-it-all brat who was just trying to show off in class yet again. Tony braced to it chin first, then kicked it in, just as he'd done for years. "Yeah? Well that scribble was based on standard issue Tony-Stark-Shit-Talking, Cap, but clearly it bothered _you_ enough to memorialize it!"

Steve rose to the challenge with an angry flash in his own eyes. "If you hadn't snooped, it wouldn't be bothering you now, would it?" he asked, but the question was irrelevant and rhetorical, and Tony didn't feel obligated to answer it. He just held Steve's stare while Glenn Miller music swelled from the other room -- Coulson playing dirty to lure Steve back into practice, no doubt. It didn't work, but to Tony's surprise, the staring contest did, and Steve actually caved first. "It only bothered me for a little while," he said, then offered up a thin sort of smirk and added, "Then I figured out that you're a pigtail-puller, and that was that."

"A... a what?" Tony surprised himself by laughing. "I am totally NOT a pigtail puller. Whatever that is." Great. Now Steve _was_ laughing again, and not even trying to hide it. Tony went on the offensive, poking at his shoulder accusingly. "And it does too bother you. It bothers you, or you wouldn't have taped that drawing in from a different book."

"It doesn't bother me," Steve tried again, then caught Tony's finger in his fist when he tried for another punitive poke. "It. Doesn't." He leveled that Immovable Object stare at Tony until he rolled his eyes and stopped trying to get his finger back. "I thought it was worth remembering, is all," Steve said, releasing him at last, but keeping that arclight blue stare level and focused on Tony's face. "Bullies will say anything to get you mad, I've always known that. But if it really _hurts_ , and keeps on hurting even after they stop hitting you, chances are it was probably the truth. Those are the things you have to fix before that bully hits you with it again."

Son of a bitch. Tony could actually feel the arc reactor cycling faster as heart sped up, and blood rushed to his neck. Could feel his knuckles creaking against the urge to ball up tight, could feel angry truths that would fucking hurt ten times worse crowding up into his throat with every breath.

But Steve read it all over him, it seemed, and dammed the explosion up with one touch -- a hand over Tony's bunched fist, open and unrestraining. His stare didn't waver. "I'm not saying that," he said, "Not about you. What I'm saying is; all I got offered was a chance. Sure, that chance came in a test tube, but guys like me just don't get many chances, let alone that kind." He let his hand fall away, turned it in his lap as though he still couldn't quite believe it belonged to him. "So I took it. Did the best I could with it, then and now." 

He stood then, his smile wry and his eyes unclouded. "But underneath it all, I'm just a kid from Brooklyn," he said, offering that hand to Tony again. "Nobody should ever know that better than me."

~*~

Tony did the host-thing at the front door come the end of the evening. It hadn't really been his party, of course, but it was still his house, and he could almost _feel_ the weight of Sloane's expectation radiating from the kitchen as the Avengers and SHIELD agents started packing up to go.

"An enjoyable revel," Thor announced, pumping Tony's hand like a Midwest politician on Super Tuesday. "I shall bring my lady Jane when next we assemble. She will surely enjoy this Midgardian love-making!"

"Yeah," Tony grimaced, full of loathing for whomever had taught Thor that a handshake entailed attempted dismemberment. "You know she's totally welcome, but I gotta warn you, big guy, astrophysicists aren't really known for their slick party moves."

Thor's brows knit down as if offended, but then his expression unspooled into something halfway between a grin and a leer. "Jane is very well versed in slick-"

"Oh god, I can't know that about your girlfriend before you even introduce me to her!" Tony blurted winning back the Asgardian scowl again.

"Dr. Foster will do fine with the dancing, I'm sure." Steve and his peacekeeping voice came to Tony's rescue just in time. "She's a smart gal, from what I hear." His lips had a wry turn to them, but his cheeks were slightly flushed in the gaslight as he shrugged into his old leather jacket. So yeah, Tony wasn't the only one who'd have a hard time looking Dr. Foster in the eye when they finally met. 

Tony gave him the side-eye. "Seriously, Steve? How many scientists do _you_ know who can polka?"

"Well, you and Bruce to start the list," Steve offered back, unrepentant. "You even managed it backwards. Anyway, if I can learn these dances, anybody can. Even an astrophysicist."

"Modesty!" Thor crowed, slapping Steve on the shoulder so he nearly staggered off the step. "I have been told of this. It is just as ridiculous as it seemed."

"Yeah, that," Tony agreed before wrestling the point back to target. "Thing is, the whole reason we're doing this is so we can prevent a possible attack on the Stark Gala. Are you really sure you want to bring your girlfriend along when there's a good chance we're going to have to fight this Dr. Sepiidaris clown-" Tony ducked hastily aside as Thor made to clap him on the shoulder too. 

"I feel quite certain she will be safe, Tony," Thor answered with a laugh that was far too knowing. Then he marched down the steps and across the gravel drive to where the van waited to take the SHIELD personnel back to headquarters. Steve gave Tony a similarly knowing smirk and headed off to where he'd left his motorcycle.

"I thought I might invite a date too," Bruce said from the doorway behind him. He was smiling when Tony whirled to him in dismay. "She's a scientist too, but I guarantee she can dance. And it's been a long time since I took her on a date." Then he slipped past Tony without a hint of contrition and went to meet Happy at the car.

Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. "Is _nobody_ taking this thing seriously?" he asked the uncaring night.

Oddly, the uncaring night sounded just like Coulson when it answered him. "Doesn't look like it."

Tony turned back to face him, Natasha, and Clint, all of whom regarded him with similarly bland, smug expressions. "Et tu?" he cried, "All of tu?"

"Whatever tu say," Clint replied with a grin and an eyebrow waggle as he skipped down the steps. "See tu next week!"

Natasha merely shook her head and followed him, leaving Coulson to hold the step. "If it makes you feel better, Stark, I'm pretty sure Ms. Potts is taking this very seriously indeed."

Tony peered at him, folding his arms over the arc reactor. "Is that a threat? That sounded like a threat. I believe I'm being threatened here." And there, finally, Coulson's face cracked just the tiniest fraction of a grin. 

"Well, that _is_ why we're all here, isn't it Mr. Stark," he said, turning to his left, and giving a brisk nod to someone out of sight behind the doorframe. Someone Tony couldn't see, but could suddenly sense in every upright hair on his body. "Aunt April, good to see you again."

And of course, because there was a God, and that God hated Tony Stark very much, it was Sloane who stepped into the light in answer to that address. She was wiping her hands on a dishcloth and _smiling_.

"Likewise, Philip. Glad you're not dead. Next week then?"

"Wouldn’t miss it." Then he strode off into the darkness with the others, leaving Tony gape-mouthed to stare. 

"You'll need to bring proper shoes next week, Mr. Stark." Sloane's voice snapped him from his horrified trance at last. "Those trainers of yours have left black marks all over the ballroom floor."

"Um." Tony said. He shut his mouth, swallowed, and tried again. "Um. What the actual-"

"Your driver is waiting," Sloane advised him, her eyes alight with cruelty. "Good night, Mr. Stark." Then she shut the door in his face.

So… yeah. _That_ happened.

~*~

Tony let the ringtone get all the way through the first verse of _The Star Spangled Man_ before his willpower failed. What kind of genius would make an earworm like that into an actual ringtone, anyway? Aside from a genius who took at face value the owner of said ringtone's insistence that he didn't get modern phones at all and thus never expected to actually have to HEAR the damned song piped directly to his skull. Served Tony right for forgetting that Steve's learning curve was more like a fucking parabola, no matter what he claimed.

He tapped the earbud to receive rather than yanking it out and pitching it into traffic, snapping, "Yeah?"

"Stark," answered Captain America. "We're in position at the Gala hotel. I need an ETA from you."

"Did Pepper tell you to call?" Tony clipped back, accelerating around a pod of bikers who seemed not to understand the concept of highway speed, "Because it isn't going to do any good. I've had it with her, and I've had it with Barton, and I've-"

"Stark. Tony," Steve forcibly put Captain America away, his tone mellowing, losing the carrying note and picking up a resonance that made Tony think suddenly of the way his gaze hooded, flickered away, and came up open again whenever Steve swallowed back his words. Tony he hated that, that sign that Steve still had to hide things from him, still had to _try_. "Ms. Potts didn't put me up to anything. She did send me an e mail earlier saying that she didn’t expect to see you at the Gala tonight, but I was still welcome to attend. It was the same memo she sent to SHIELD HQ."

"Right." Tony breathed hard through his nose, and gunned the engine so as not to _quite_ cut off a moving van that was totally blocking the right lane. "Well, there you have it. Nice chatting with you, Cap-"

"Stop it." Tony had to blink at that. It wasn't the Captain voice -- the Captain didn't get mad, just forceful and abrupt. This was Steve, and he was mad. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are needed here, and I expect you to show up!"

"Needed for what?" Tony scoffed, slamming on his breaks just long enough to skid sidelong into a closing gap between two sedans. "You and Pep are there to smile at the cameras, Romanov and Coulson can be obnoxious to the Board members, and Thor and Barton are there to clean out the bar. Between you, you've got the Tony Stark act covered-"

"There are people here who are at risk, Tony."

"At risk from the evil plot of the terrifying, convenient, and probably entirely bullshit-fictional Dr. fucking Cuttlefish." Another burst of speed. "Right. You know what, not even Fury's taking that line seriously anymore. He said so to my face. He's treating the Gala as a fucking paid R and R for the agents on duty."

"Which is exactly why I need you here," Steve said, level and sane. "I need to know that my team, at least, is ready to take action if Dr. Sepiidaris does make his move tonight."

That actually made Tony stumble over the next volley of hurt he'd lined up to throw. And in that pause, he accidentally glanced at the speedometer, which he could have done without, thanks. "You think… You don't actually think he's real, do you? Nobody does. He's ridiculous. Barton's even got Bruce calling him Dr. Cuddles now!"

Steve sighed, and Tony swore he could hear actual amusement in it. "Tony, I spent two years chasing a guy called Red Skull all over Europe. A bully with a funny name gets a lot less funny once he starts killing people." Which was true, Tony supposed. Dr. Doom was proof of that. "I know what people have been saying," Steve went on after a silent moment, his voice deepening as if he'd turned to face a wall, shield his conversation from others nearby. "About the threat being a hoax you made up to get attention."

Tony's throat went dry at that. "And?" he dared.

"And I don't buy it."

"Oh, sure, because I don't have… wait. You don't?"

"I don't." Steve agreed, so earnest you could chip a tooth on it. "It's not your style. If you wanted attention you'd just land the Suit in Times Square and start signing autographs."

"Hey! _One_ damned time!"

"And it's still in the news," Steve agreed. "Tony, you're smarter than this."

"I…" Tony blinked, strangely warmed to hear Steve say those actual words. "I am?"

"Sure. If you made up a villain for a joke, you'd have done the background for us to find. There'd be a whole history, a hundred false trails for SHIELD to follow, and a dozen Federal agencies scared to even ask what he might be capable of. And you damn sure wouldn't have named him after a mollusk!"

 _THANK you, Captain Common Sense!_ Tony kept the crow of triumph to himself, but it was a struggle. He and Pepper had fought to the dirt over that, and it still burned him that she'd think for an instant he wouldn't have been twenty times more awesome if this really had been his idea of a joke.

"So I can hear that you're in the car. What's your ETA?" Steve asked. 

"You know, this assclown still might not show up," Tony answered, speeding to make a light, then braking for a turn that made his tires chirp. "What happens then?"

"We tell the press the truth; that deterrent force works on the smarter class of villains, we all had a lovely time at the Stark Gala, and we were glad to help prevent crime without doing major damage to the city for once," Steve came back without even a pause to think about it. "Then Barton serves you humble pie for a couple of weeks until he gives you a chance to save his life again. We move on. If the only injury tonight happens to your dignity, then we call that a win, all right?"

"Oh sure. Because it's _my_ dignity on the line," Tony grumbled.

Steve actually laughed at that. "Find me a guy dressed like Hitler and I'll pretend to punch him out for you. Will that make you feel better?" 

"It will. In increments directly related to how many times it turns up in print and on the internet within 12 hours," Tony agreed, which made Steve laugh again.

"I'll see what I can arrange. Now where the hell are you?"

"Cap, I got him coming into Valet," Barton's voice, tinny and thin with distance, came over the phone's speaker as Tony braked at the curb. He slid out of the Bentley, tossed the keys to the kid in the vest as he turned to find the highest vantage point in view and flipped Barton off. "Got his company manners on too," Hawkeye added.

"Tell me you're not wearing the Star Spangled Leotard to my goddamned Gala, Rogers," he said into the phone as he caught his jacket and Suitcase out of the back seat. 

"Under the tux," Steve answered in his ear as well as from behind him. When Tony turned, he saw the man push away from the hotel's covered smoking area; half a mile of chiseled hotness in black tux and white tie with a grin halfway between smug and proud. And damn, where did he find a tailor who could hide armor under a tux jacket but still make it look so indecently sleek? People would be looking twice at Steve all right, but it wouldn't be because of what he had on under his suit. Not that _that_ question wouldn't cross a few minds… "Got the cowl in my pocket until I need it," Steve went on as if he didn't notice Tony's staring. "but the comm's useful now." He juggled the shield and his phone for a moment, then the double-echo in Tony's ear died as he ended the call. "You ready to go in?"

"You knew I was going to come," Tony accused as his car pulled away, not quite able to suppress the urge to kick out at _something_ before surrendering his duly earned snit. "You were totally waiting out here for me to show!"

"Course I did," Steve replied, still grinning as he offered Tony one of SHIELD's earpieces, "I have faith in my team. That includes you."

"Does it include Dr. Foster and Dr. Ross too?" Tony asked, waving the earpiece off. He removed his own receiver, giving it a couple of taps, and then waving it near Steve's head until it found and matched the frequency. Then he jammed it back into his ear. "Because having Thor's and Bruce's girlfriends around just kinda paints 'collateral risk' all over the evening, if you ask me."

"And yet you don't seem to feel that way about Ms. Potts being here," Natasha wasped as his earpiece linked into the comm, "Or doesn't the CEO of your cash cow count as 'collateral risk' too?"

 _My GIRLFRIEND counts as 'stubborn fucking redhead who won't listen to reason'!_ Tony thought savagely, knowing he couldn't say it, shouldn't have to say it, shouldn't even have to be here, protecting a woman who could accuse him of a prank this useless on one hand, and then refuse to let him shield her from harm on the other. He reached up to turn off his comm, but Steve caught his arm with a gentle hand and shook his head.

"Enough chatter," he said, full on Captain-voice now as he and Tony approached the door, pushing their way through the few photographers still loitering there. "Civilians were always part of the equation. We treat familiars as extra motivation, and we do our jobs tonight no matter who's present, understood?"

Natasha said something low and savage in Russian, but it looked to Tony as if Steve took it for agreement. "You have eyes on Thor and Banner?"

It was Coulson's voice that answered. "Dr. Banner is with me by the service entrance. Back corner table. Dr. Ross and Dr. Foster are both here too. Thor's still chatting with the Norwegian Ambassador at the sashimi bar. Something about fermented shark, I think." Huh. Tony hadn't known it was possible for a human to say those two words together and not sound horrified. "Romanov's at the executive table, and Barton's on the roof."

"When do I get to come to the ball, Stepmother?" Barton asked as Tony and Steve paused to present their invitations to the security suits at the door, both of whom were almost as big as Steve himself. Pepper must have paid the hotel for double meat on this detail just to spite him.

"Once the Prince shows up, you're welcome to come and shoot him in the foot, Cindy," Tony muttered back. Steve shot Tony a quelling look, but Barton at least thought it was funny.

"Mr. Stark," said the guard, after taking a conspicuous moment to scan their invitations. "Captain... America."

Tony opened his mouth, prepared to ask just what this moron's problem was -- as if anybody who wasn't Tony Stark or Captain America would be walking into the Stark Gala carrying a battlesuit in a briefcase, and the world's only vibranium shield! But just then Steve's hand pressed gently, warningly into the small of his back. He shut his mouth with a click of teeth, and absolutely, positively did not lean back into the touch.

"That's us," Steve said, not sounding wary at all, even as his hand tensed against Tony's waist.

"May I take your case, and… um. Shield?"

"Are you _high?_ " Tony snarled. 

Over the comm Coulson murmured, "Heads up…"

"Got it." 

"I'll get Thor." 

"Be right down."

"We have strict orders regarding weaponry," the guard pressed on, his eyes just visible behind the standard issue sunglasses as they flicked back and forth, trying to watch them both. 

Over the comm, Tony could hear someone snapping their fingers, bringing the team to attention.

"Orders from whom, exactly?" Steve asked, unslinging the shield as if he really did intend to hand it over.

Tony'd been watching for it, so he saw the stun gun slip out of the guard's sleeve. A second guard lunged in from behind Cap, and Tony dropped low and spun, taking out his knees with a bash from the Suitcase. Above him, he heard vibranium ring, and an electric crackle. The stun gun and the big man fell hard to the floor.

Tony caught the first, and used it to shut up the screaming partner. Oh yeah, that was hell of cathartic right there, wasn't it?

"Stark?" 

Tony looked up, grinned to find Cap hunched low and fierce, covering them both with the shield. Everyone else in sight was frozen in place and staring, horrified at the pair of them. 

"All good here," he replied, fetching out a cheesy grin and tucking the stun gun into his pocket. "A little disappointed, actually. I mean, two grunts with coppertops to take out the Iron Man? Really?" He dusted his hands and winked at the photographer from Esquire, "Talk about anticlimactic!"

And that was when the Sashimi bar attacked. 

No shit; tentacles filled the room, snatching anything not fast enough to get away, which, thanks to the perversity of fashion, was most of the arm-candy, hired escorts, and trophy wives. Wasabi flew everywhere as the appetizers lurched and rolled, hunching up into something vaguely like a human shape. Socialites howled and scattered like mice, only to find that the catering staff herding them back into range with… dude, Uzis? Really? All this shit needed was… oh hell no. Girls in pink ninja suits rappelled down out of the ceiling and blocked all the exits.

Tony couldn't stop the giggle that rose in his chest at the sight. "Someone's Hentai addiction is just out of control here!"

"Tony," said Steve, sounding just a little stunned.

"DOCTOR SEPIIDARIS HAS JUDGED YOU ALL!" bellowed the mass of seafood as it dragged a Hilton and two Kochs toward its… um… self.

"Yeah, Cap?" Tony heard himself answer.

He could see Fury standing up from the wreckage of a table, his tuxedo spotted with rice, a bit of pickled ginger like a tiny pink flower in his beard as he stalked toward the buffet-monster with a gun in each hand. 

"YOU ARE ALL FOUND WANTING!" it screamed, unaware of its impending ass-kicking. Or was it tail-kicking? Fin-kicking? Bluefin-kicking? Tony found himself wanting popcorn. 

"YOU WILL SURRENDER YOUR-" Fury opened fire. 

Fish goo splattered everywhere, and the tableau was broken. Pink ninjas and sleeper waiters leapt to secure hostages; Mjolnir, crackling with blue light, came smashing through a picture window; Barton swung in like Tarzan through the empty frame not a moment later; Natasha shoved Pepper under the table and leapt on top of it to kick a waiter in the face; Bruce gave a roar and went over all green, flinging an eight foot table like a tiddlywink. 

"Put on the suit," Steve said, yanking the cowl down over his face as the chandelier crashed to the ballroom floor in a shattering chime.

"Yup!" Tony answered, and whacked a ninja girl with his case.

~*~

After that evening, Dr. Bruce Banner could never be convinced to go out for sushi again.

All things considered, none of the Avengers could really blame him.

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows directly upon part 3 of the series; Wholly Uncollected. I divided it because of length.
> 
> Title from the song of the same title, by The Ditty Bops;
> 
> "Now it's our chance; we'll feel complete.  
> I'll ask you to dance, and if you'll agree,  
> Me and you; that makes two, with four left feet.  
> We'll sell ourselves small even though we look tall,  
> And dance with our four left feet."


End file.
